


Not in Nottingham

by xahra99



Series: Monster Ballads [3]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Bars and Pubs, Birmingham City, Boats and Ships, British Character, British English, British Slang, Complete, Gen, Gen Work, Haunted Houses, Prequel, canals, nottingham - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-28 02:54:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20418719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xahra99/pseuds/xahra99
Summary: The Peaky Blinder comes alone and by boat, just as they've asked...When the Peaky Blinders expand to Nottingham, the Shelbys end up on the wrong side of a canalside argument. Prequel. Gen. Complete





	Not in Nottingham

_Nottingham, 1919_

The Peaky Blinder comes alone and by boat, just as they’ve asked. George spots him easily from his vantage point astride the bridge’s parapet. He pretends to doze in the wan autumn sun as the boat slides slowly by beneath him, but inside he’s buzzing like a jar full of wasps.

The boat’s a nice one, a heavy steam-powered fly-boat that belches smoke into the still air, but the man at her tiller don’t look like much to George. He’s shorter than most of George’s family, and though he handles the boat well enough he doesn’t have the swagger of a true canal-side man. He wears an open-necked shirt beneath a dusty black long coat and boots just a little bit too clean for the canals. His eyes are winter-blue beneath the brim of his peaked cap. George holds his breath, but the man doesn’t spare him so much as a glance.

George’s dad told him how to recognize Tommy Shelby when he saw him. _A short man_, he’d said, _with the look of the Black Irish about him_. George didn’t know what the look of the Black Irish was, so his dad had to explain. The boatmen said that if you crossed Shelby you might as well dig your own grave.

George doesn’t believe half of it. Still, he waits ‘til the boat’s well past before he climbs down from the parapet. He drags his bicycle out from under the hedge and rides as fast as he can to the Fellows Moreton and Clayton offices.

The bike splatters mud as he pedals furiously along. He splashes a few ladies’ dresses and feels bad when they shriek and jump out of the way, but he doesn’t stop to apologise. He feels far worse when he rides past the cut and sees Jones and his horse Rosie with the _Lynx, _but he pedals right past him without giving Jones the time of day or pausing to feed Rosie a carrot. The Peaky Blinder’s boat is pretty slow, but George must reach the warehouse before he does. His family needs time to prepare.

When George reaches the yard, he slams on the brakes, pulls his bicycle up in a long skid and jumps off. He’s badly tempted to chuck the bike down, but he knows what his dad will say about that, so he leans it carefully up against the wall.

The office buildings are Victorian redbrick, a sprawling complex of warehouses, stables, and a pub. A giant sign painted high on one wall reads _Fellows Moreton and Clayton Lim’d, General Carriers_. The sight makes George feel all safe and sound. George’s granddad started the company with his partner Frederick Moreton. Thomas Clayton joined them later. The families intermarried to seal the deal. Twenty years later, they’re all different branches of the same sprawling family tree, and the warehouse is the heart of an empire that stretches across the country. The warehouse is right in the centre, with a big yard out front and the canal out back. There’s a wharf running right inside the ground floor of the warehouse, so they can unload cargo straight from the boat.

The weak sun glitters on the rafters as George runs up the steps to the wharf. His dad’s there, deep in conversation with his foreman. He looks up as George runs towards him.

“Hey Dad! The Peaky Blinder’s here!”

“How far?”

“Down in the cut,” George says. His voice squeaks, annoyingly. He lowers his tone, hoping it’ll make him sound older. “Maybe ten minutes.”

His dad nods and straightens. Standing, his head nearly reaches the low warehouse roof. Joshua Fellows is a big man, with the shoulders of a man who’s hauled a lot of cargo in the first years of his life. His right arm’s thick as George’s leg, but his left arm ends at the elbow, from where he’d nearly been crushed between a boat and a dock. The injury has never seemed to hold him back. George’s mum says his dad is better with one hand then most men are with two, and George knows it’s true, though he still hasn’t worked out why all the other women laugh when she says it.

“Go fetch Uncle Reuben,” says his dad. He doesn’t have to tell George twice.

Uncle Reuben’s half hidden behind stacks of paperwork upstairs, but he sets the paper aside when George tells him it’s time. By the time they get downstairs George’s uncle is slightly out of breath and his dad has cleared an area in the warehouse for the meeting. It’s a rough square bordered by coal sacks and packing crates, set between the iron pillars that support the rafters. There’s an old table in the centre of the square. Two chairs behind the table face one in front of it. The warehouse has been crammed with cargo for as long as George can remember, and it seems strange to see the bricks so clear.

George’s uncle claps his dad on the back. They’re both big men and seeing them together in their moleskins and bright scarlet neckerchiefs makes George feel safe. His stomach leaps in fear and excitement. His dad sits down and says “George, go help your mother.”

George digs his hands in his pockets. “Dad!”

“Let him watch,” Reuben says quietly.

George’s dad’s eyebrows rise in surprise. Reuben never says much since he came back from the war. He never speaks of his time there. Once George heard him say, almost to himself, “They had canals in France,” and he thinks that must have been a reference to the war, but he doesn’t know for sure, and he’s never dared ask.

“He’s old enough now,” Reuben leans on the table, but doesn’t sit down. “Boys grow up fast.”

“They don’t have to,” says George’s dad. George senses a chink in his father’s usually impenetrable armour. 

“Let me stay?” he begs, trying not to whine. “I’ll just watch. You won’t even see me.”

His dad hesitates.

“You told Mum you’d teach me how to do business,” George pushes.

It’s too much. His dad instantly shuts down. “Not this business. Go home, George. Now.”

George tries to catch Uncle Reuben’s eye, but Reuben just pulls out a chair and sits down. They’re interrupted by the clip of boots on cobbles. A worker enters, cap in hand. He enters the square and clears his throat. “He’s in the basin, sirs.”

George’s dad nods. “Show him in,” he says. He turns to George. “Go home. Now.”

George obeys. He turns back once before he leaves the cleared square, but Uncle Reuben and his dad are already deep in conversation. Neither of them pays George any attention. George’s stomach lurches as he notices his father’s arm. His dad’s exchanged the leather sleeve covering his stump for a menacing steel hook. The hook means he’s expecting trouble. If there’s going to be trouble, George wants to see it.

George has an idea. He takes a couple of strides between the coal-sacks, so it looks like he’s leaving. Then he darts in between the rows and climbs up on the pile. His jacket and trousers are made of dark moleskin. It’s not likely anyone will notice him in the shadowy light.

He slides belly-down along the lumpy sacks until he’s found a good view. He’s just in time to see the fly-boat he saw earlier slide in with the Peaky Blinder at the tiller. He steps off at the wharf and secures the boat at bow and stern with two neat half-hitches.

George’s father clears his throat. “Mister Shelby,” he says. “Welcome to Nottingham. I am Joshua Fellows, of Fellows, Moreton, and Clayton. This is Reuben Farley, chairman of the board.”

“And I’m Thomas Shelby, of the Peaky Blinders,” says the man. His voice is soft with a sharp edge, like a knife wrapped in sacking. George and his friends like to take the mick out of the Brummie accent, but there’s nothing comical about the way this man speaks. “I’m here to talk.”

Reuben rises. “You’ll forgive me if I search for weapons.”

Shelby nods like he’s expecting it. George’s uncle pats him down efficiently. He even takes the man’s cap from his head and folds it in half to test the rim, but his hands come up empty. 

George’s father nods. “No weapons,” he says. “Smart man.”

“Like I said, I’m here to talk.”

George’s dad points at the single empty chair, “Sit down,” he says as Reuben slides back into his seat. 

Shelby sits. Wood creaks in the silence as he slides his hand into his jacket.

Uncle Reuben casually lifts a windlass from the floor and lays it on the table. Every boat has at least two to wind the locks. They’re a perfectly reasonable tool to keep in a canal warehouse. They’re also heavy angled bits of metal with a broad flattened end that weigh at least a stone. George has seen his uncle crack a man’s skull with one before. 

Shelby raises his hands in mock surrender, palms out. “Just a smoke.” He cocks an eyebrow. “May I?”

George’s dad nods. “Go ahead.”

Shelby takes a battered tin cigarette case from his pocket. He puts the cigarette in his mouth, lights it and shakes out the match. He tips his head back and inhales with his eyes closed, then blows a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling. George’s dad folds his arms and rests his hook on his good hand.

Shelby nods at the hook. “You fight in France?”

George’s father shakes his head. “Not me.” He nods at his hook. “Boat accident in 1910. Well before the war.”

“Started at St Quentin,” Reuben says. “Through the Somme and Aisnes. Ended west of Mons.” He lifts the windlass again, twirls the handle. “Best day of my life.”

Shelby nods and smokes in silence. The men watch each other at each other across the table like boxers waiting to make the first move. The canal water ripples as a boat steams by outside. Dust-motes sparkle in the shafts of light that pierce the dusty windows.

“You have my uncle and my brother, Mister Fellows,” Shelby says eventually. “I want them back.”

George’s father strokes the gleaming metal of his left hand with the fingers of his right. He shows no outward sign of being nervous, but George can tell he’s ill at ease. “There’ve been problems, Mister Shelby. In Birmingham. Our depot, in Fazeley Street. A boat of ours was burnt. There was word your Peaky Blinders did it.”

Shelby shrugs.

“We don’t appreciate your lot hassling my men,” George’s dad continues. “I went to put a stop to it. They call you Shelbys a close family.”

Shelby stabs his cigarette at George’s father. “Then you know it’s a bad idea to threaten us.” 

George’s dad nods. “I do. But they also say you’d make a deal with the devil himself if the terms were in your favour. I needed to make sure you’d listen. They haven’t been harmed.”

“How do I know?”

“You have my word.”

Shelby doesn’t reply. George has seen his father and his uncle confront men before; fiery brash fellows full of fire and bluster. Shelby doesn’t seem one for bluster, but George finds his calmness scary. It’s the calm before a gunshot. 

“You have ambition, Mister Shelby,” continues George’s father.

“That’s no secret.”

“You’re hoping to expand. For that, you’ll need allies,” George’s father pauses. “Respectable ones.”

Shelby raises one eyebrow, “Why would I?”

“Why would you not? You’re a Water Lane gypsy with a gang of razor boys. Thirty percent of your operation involves contraband, and over half your contraband is carried on canals. We’re the largest canal carrier in the country. We have advantages you don’t, and we are unimpeachably legitimate.”

Smoke curls into the air from the cigarette in Shelby’s hands. “Are you offering to carry goods for me?”

“We’ll help you where we can,” George’s father confirms. Beside him, Uncle Reuben folds his arms, mouth twisting. “Just do us one small favour.”

“And in return?”

“We return your uncle and your brother. And Nottingham is out of bounds.”

Shelby’s face is shadowed. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking. He raises the cigarette to his mouth and inhales. Uncle Reuben lifts his windlass again, but George’s father catches his arm. The whole warehouse holds its breath until Shelby finally exhales.

“I’m listening,” he says.

The mood lightens somewhat, but it’s still tense. George is glad he stayed, because he’s still not sure if there might be violence, and if there’s going to be fighting then maybe he can help.

George’s father clears his throat. “There’s two things everyone knows about you, Mister Shelby.”

Shelby’s body language and tone don’t change. “And what’s that?”

“First one, you love your family. Second, you’re a Gypsy. That true?”

Shelby drags on the cigarette until the ember gleams like the devil’s eye. “Partly.”

“Partly?”

“I don’t love.”

George’s father blinks. “What?”

“The people you love are just weapons that can be used against you.” He jabs his cigarette in George’s direction. “That your son?”

George shrinks back against the coal-sacks, but it’s too late. George’s dad turns. He sees George and his face flushes an angry red. “He’s not meant to be here.”

Shelby’s cigarette has burned almost to his fingers. He takes one last drag, exhales through bared teeth and grinds the stub beneath his heel.

“George, come out,” his dad orders through gritted teeth.

George slithers down the coal-sacks. His stomach drops into his boots and keeps dropping. By the time he shuffles into the square of light. He gives Shelby a wide berth as he scuttles behind the table to stand beside his dad. His dad reaches out and ruffles his hair. Uncle Reuben’s knuckles are white on his windlass.

“This is my boy George,” George’s dad says. “He’ll inherit this company one day.”

Shelby nods. “Pleased to meet you,” he says, not sounding it in the slightest. 

“Let us get one thing clear, Mister Shelby,” his dad continues. “We are a family too. And if you harm my family I’ll drown you in the cut. Understand?”

Shelby nods, unsmiling.

“I expect you’d do no different.”

“Me?” Shelby smiles as if George’s dad has said something amusing, though his smile never reaches his eyes. “I’d just shoot you.”

“Then we understand each other.”

“We do.”

“And we can do business together?”

“Yes.” Shelby reaches for the chair He spins the chair and sits, arms folded on the back. His hands are clean despite his constant smoking. “What’s this favour?”

“We want you to clean a ship,” George’s dad says.

Surprise skips across Shelby’s face like a stone across a pond. “You want me to do what?”

***

George asks to come with them when they leave, and to his surprise his dad agrees. “It’s not likely to get violent,” he says with a sideways glance at Shelby. “You’ll have what you came for.”

Shelby shakes his head. He hasn’t said much since George’s dad’s explanation, but he smokes like it’s going out of fashion. The news of the ship seems to rattle him in a way that Uncle Reuben’s threats didn’t. It’s not until they’ve left the canal behind and go up the cobbled street towards the Castle Rock that he speaks again.

“It’s not me you want,” he says. “You want Poll. My aunt.”

“Well it’s you we’ve got,” George’s dad’s mood is almost jovial now Shelby’s agreed to his plan. He goes to slap Shelby’s shoulder the way he would one of his own men, but an icy glare from Shelby deters him.

“Would you do it?” he asks.

“Not on me life,” George’s dad says cheerily. “Why’d you think we asked you?”

Shelby smokes and says nothing. The ducal mansion on the rock at the top of the hill looms above their heads like it’s going to topple over. George grips the metal windlass Uncle Reuben gave him in both hands. His arms are tired by the time they reach the Castle Rock.

Nottingham Castle’s built upon a hunk of sandstone that’s burrowed through with tunnels like a cheese with holes. Houses, tanneries, and workshops nestle within the rock. In Brewhouse Yard at the base of the rock a dingy building leans against the cliff for support like an old man with a bad back. There isn’t a straight line in the place. All the downpipes and chimneys are at completely different angles. The building’s once-white paint and the cliff behind it are both stained by smoke. The air smells of coal and yeast. This is the Trip, an ancient pub formally known as The Trip to Jerusalem. The building is said to be haunted, though George has seen no worse there than a few broken noses.

The Trip’s landlord is George Ward, known to everyone as Yorkey for reasons long forgotten. He hurries out into the garden, holding his bowler hat upon his head with his free hand.

George’s dad nods. “Yorkey.”

“Mister Fellows,” Yorkey’s long white moustache twitches. “And company.”

“This here is Tommy Shelby,” says George’s dad. “He’s come to clean your ship for you.”

Yorkey looks Shelby up and down. Shelby stares right back. He doesn’t blink, and after a while Yorkey gives a little nod and looks away. “You’d best come in,” he says.

They do.

The first room of the pub is little more than a cave carved from natural sandstone, with a bull’s horn mounted on one wall. They go through into the bar. A few bleary patrons peer at Shelby myopically as they cross the room and climb a flight of narrow stairs to the Rock Lounge. The lounge is a cave on three of its four sides, with a partition and window on the fourth. A massive chimney pierces the ceiling, large enough to pass a barrel through. A small semi-circular bar made from wood-panels sits in the corner of the room. The Trip’s famous haunted ship is usually kept safely out of reach above the bar. Today it sits atop a table in the snug. A bowl of water, some cloths, a duster, and a tin of polish are laid out on the table.

Yorkey points. “Here she is,” he says.

The ship is so shrouded in cobwebs George can barely see the masts, but what little is visible certainly appears a haunted galleon. Every stay and shroud drips dust-covered gossamer threads. The ship’s menacing aura is slightly tempered by its size. The crow’s nest is no higher than George’s waist.

Shelby looks the ship over, then glances up. Smoke curls over his shoulder. “I want to see them first.”

George’s dad gestures to Yorkey. “Bring them up from the cellars,” he says.

Yorkey leaves. They listen to his boots thud down the stairs. Shelby smokes, watching the ship like it’s going to jump up and bite him. George prowls round the bar, hoping for cigarette butts he can tease out to make a roll up, but there aren’t any. He finds a few glasses in a table in the next room and drains a heeltap.

He jumps as he hears boots climbing up the stairs. Yorkey climbs first. Behind him comes a tall man with a long black coat like Shelby’s and a boy in a flat cap that’s a few years younger than George. They blink in the light. Shelby’s sprawled in an armchair beside the ship. George notices how they relax when they see him, like he’s going to make everything right

“Charlie,” Shelby said, stubbing his cigarette out on the table. The embers sizzle in a puddle of spilled beer. “Finn.”

“Tommy,” the tall man says. George decides he must be Charlie. The boy hangs back. He’s wearing shorts, and his knees are filthy. Shelby beckons him across the room, then reaches out and catches him by the chin. “Hey, Finn. They treat you well?”

George finds himself hoping the boy says _yes_.

“It was dark,” says the boy in a small voice.

“Three days in the dark, Tommy,” Charlie confirms.

“Came soon as I could,” Shelby says.

“You could have come sooner,” Charlie mutters. He pulls a pouch of tobacco from his pocket and rolls an expert cigarette. Shelby hands him a lighter, and he inhales gratefully. Then he looks down at the ship. George admits that the model might look strange to anyone unfamiliar with the Trip’s long and chequered history. “What’s all this then?” 

Shelby leans forwards, “Got to clean this ship, haven’t I?”

“Fuck’s sake, Tommy, what’ve you got us into now?”

Shelby jerks his chin at the model. “They say a sailor left it here. Never came back. Last three people cleaned it died.” He pauses. “They say it’s cursed.”

“That’s not our problem, is it?”

“It’s part of a deal. I’ll explain later.”

“Why you?”

Shelby shrugs. “Gypsy blood.”

Charlie rolls his eyes.

Shelby leans forwards again and reaches for the ship. He examines the model closely. The ship showers dust onto his trousers, but Shelby pays it no need. He chooses a duster from the table and begins to wipe down the ship, starting at the top of the tallest mast and moving meticulously downward. Cobwebs fall like snow.

George slides onto a vacant seat to watch. He’s not the only one. Yorkey has positioned himself against the bar, as far as he can get from the ship and still be in the room. George’s dad is beside him, arms folded. Charlie mutters beneath his breath, and the kid just stands there with eyes as wide as coins.

Shelby dips a cloth in the water and washes the wood, then wipes it clean. He uses the corner of the cloth to clean every nook and cranny. He even twists it up and scours the miniature gun ports. The model is so clean that even George’s mum would have said he’d done a good job by the time he tosses the rag down next to the ship and rises.

“We’ll be in touch, Mister Fellows. You can deal with my agent.” He gestures to Charlie.

“Me?” Charlie’s eyebrows shoot up. “I’m not dealing with these fuckers.”

Shelby glares at Charlie. Charlie subsides, cigarette pinched between his lips. Shelby raises his eyebrows and hustles Charlie out of the door with his hand on his shoulder. At the top of the stairs he turns to George’s dad. “Do me a favour?”

“What?”

“Put a fucking case round it.”

Yorkey spits on the carpet and mutters something about bloody tinkers. Shelby turns and flips him a shilling. Yorkey catches the coin and peers down at it. “What’s this?”

Shelby walks another shilling over his knuckles. He rolls the coin into his palm and closes it in his fist. Then he blows over his fist and opens his hand. The coin is gone. “Gypsy curse, Mister Yorkey.”

The Peakys vanish down the stairs. Yorkey peers at the coin. He draws back his arm and flings the shilling down the stairs after the Peakys. He swears. Then he crosses himself.

George’s dad laughs. He takes the ship and raises it to the top of the bar. “Have a case made, Mister Yorkey.”

Yorkey curses again. George darts from the chair. He runs down the stairs and out into the yard, scooping up the Peakys’ shilling as he goes. He raises the coin high up as he runs behind them. “Mister Shelby?”

The Shelbys have already left the Brewhouse yard. George catches up with them halfway down the cobbled streets. They slouch along, smoking like they own the place.

“Mister Shelby!”

Shelby turns. His hand reaches inside his jacket. Then he sees George and relaxes. “Yeah?”

“Is Yorkey really cursed?”

Charlie Strong grins and blows a cloud of smoke into the air. The kid just watches. Shelby pinches his cigarette between thumb and forefinger. “He is if he believes it.” He adds half to himself, “People believe any goddamn thing.”

George raises his arm to throw the coin back. He doesn’t want to get too close.

Shelby sighs, “The coin’s not cursed, kid. Keep it if you want.”

George tosses back the shilling anyway. He misses Tommy Shelby by a mile, but the boy, Finn, darts out and scoops the coin from the street. It gleams in his palm for a moment before he tucks it back into his pocket. 

The Peakys turn and start walking back down the road. George stands with his hands tucked in his armpits against the chilly evening air and watches them go. “There’s a curse on that ship,” he shouts after them. “Aren’t you worried?”

Shelby half-turns. “No.”

“But you cleaned the ship. You’ll die!”

Shelby turns back to the road. “All men die,” he says to the gathering shadows as he walks down the street. “But me, I’m already dead.”

He seems very much alive to George, both in that moment and in the months that follow. Things quiet down in Nottingham, and George starts learning the way Fellows Moreton and Clayton do business. 

It takes him a long time.

But occasionally, on dark nights when the mist covers the water and the moorhens scream like lost souls in the reeds, George remembers the look on Tommy Shelby’s face. There’s a legend on the cut, that if you sit down by the canal at midnight on All Hallows Eve you’ll see Death on his boat sailing past.

In George’s mind, Death looks a bit like Tommy Shelby.

_“Every town_

_Has its ups and downs._

_Sometimes ups_

_Outnumber the downs_

_But not in Nottingham,”_

-Robert Miller, Robin Hood (1973) soundtrack

**Author's Note:**

> I’m from Nottingham and couldn’t resist the urge to send Tommy Shelby to visit a few of the city highlights before the tv series kicked off. Yes, you can still sail a canal boat right from Fazeley Junction in Birmingham into Nottingham. The former warehouse of Fellows Moreton and Clayton is now a pub, and it does have a wharf inside its ground floor. I am not at all sorry for turning a fine upstanding firm of canal carriers and merchants into a gang to rival the Peakys. Fellows Moreton and Clayton were very much a family affair. I couldn’t find the names of the company owners during the period the series is set, so I stole the names of the founders instead. Likewise, Nottingham Castle is built on a bloody great sandstone rock, which somehow never makes it into any of the Robin Hood movies despite how cool it is, and it does have caves. Some of those caves host the Trip to Jerusalem, Nottingham’s oldest brewery and pub, which has a haunted ship in its lounge bar that kills whoever dares to clean it. The ship is now in a case, but its origins are lost in the mists of time. The pub was owner by a well-known character called Yorkey in that period. Go visit! My intention was not to disrespect, and any mistakes are entirely my own.


End file.
